Inside Cuba's ice-cream cathedral

What happens when ice-cream and communism collide? Anne Fullerton gets the scoop.

It may be a wet, humid afternoon in Havana, but the steady drizzle of rain has done little to dampen the enthusiasm of the crowd snaking its way around the block on Calles 23 in the affluent, if slightly faded, suburb of Vedado.

Children patiently hold their parents' hands, a young couple laughs at a private joke and four young men in their mid-twenties gather around a smartphone to look at photos. Young, old, rich, poor–they're all here, and they're all in line for the same thing: ice-cream.

People line up for up to two hours for ice-cream at Coppelia in the height of summer. Image: Anne Fullerton

Coppelia ice-cream parlour has served up sundaes to nearly 35,000 Cubans a day since 1966, after the country's then-president and known lover of frozen delicacies, Fidel Castro, nationalised the dairy industry.

Having grown up on a farm, the communist revolutionary was inspired to share his passion for ice-cream with the people. And so, Coppelia was born– a state-subsidised ice-creamery that occupies an entire block, employs 400 people and is housed inside an imposing Modernist building that resembles a spacecraft by way of the '60s.

The best part? Pay in local pesos, and a cold scoop will set you back roughly five Australian cents. An ensalada—five scoops served in a bowl with caramel or chocolate sauce–costs just 25 cents.

Queuing under the watchful eye of baton-wielding guards–and then again, in a second, internal line–is all part of the experience and can take more than two hours at the height of summer. Sweat it out, however, and you'll be rewarded by as much ice-cream as you can stomach in the most majestic milk bar you're likely to encounter–provided, that is, you're able to dodge the officials trying to redirect you to the depressingly drab "tourist section" upstairs.

But coloured glass windows and arches aside, what exactly is the ice-cream like?

Cold, sweet but nothing to write home about is the general consensus. Like much of Cuba's culinary scene, Coppelia has fallen on hard times in the wake of US trade embargos and the collapse of the Soviet Union, formerly their main trade partner. Where the establishment once offered 26 flavours, you're now lucky to get three or four (coconut, vanilla, strawberry and orange were available on my visit).

My Cuban guide, a Havana local, even speculated that insiders steal key ingredients to sell on the black market, resulting in a lower quality product.

While most agree that the goods aren't quite what they used to be, Coppelia has always been about more than just ice-cream. It's a place where people come to flirt, hang out and spend time together. In a country where the average salary is only $20 a month and many families rely on rations, ice-cream is the people's luxury. Perhaps not incidentally, it's also one of the few countries where it's illegal to kill a cow.